


I Want to Stick Around a While and Get My Kicks

by Defcon



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pre-Series, Prison, Set In 2007, cell mates, coming to terms with sexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 00:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10263317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defcon/pseuds/Defcon
Summary: It's 2007, and Len and Mick have once again been sent to Iron Heights. In an effort to keep them from escaping, the new warden separates them and places Len with his best, most up-standing inmate.This is how Leonard Snart meets Henry Allen.





	

2007

The geniuses at Iron Heights had finally cottoned on to Len and Mick’s Incredible Two Man Escape Routine, which was why Len was in the process of being assigned to D Bloc as Mick was being led away to B. 

Beneath the sound of the heavy door being buzzed open behind him, Len heard one of Mick’s escorts make a snide comment about how Mick was lucky they weren’t tossing him into the psych ward.

“Home Sweet Home,” Len mumbled under his breath.

The warden, who had come down to watch the multiple-time escapees be booked into the prison, actually laughed.

“That mean you’re planning on sticking around this time?” He asked. He was new, and didn’t seem like a bad man. But time would tell.

“Depends. Have you considered pillow mints? Turn-down service can really make or break a place.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” the warden said, a small smile on his face. “Be nice to your cellmate, huh? I picked him out myself.”

Len’s blood ran cold. In terms of his and Mick’s eventual escape, being unfamiliar with D Bloc concerned Len not at all. He’d gone into worse prisons with less knowledge and wormed his way out. What did matter about not being familiar with D Bloc was not knowing his fellow prisoners. Len might recognize some of the men booked for long stays from being out in the yard, but he didn’t know the lay of the land. Who was in charge? Who should he avoid? He’d hoped his reputation would proceed him, but if the warden had put him with someone particularly nasty that wouldn’t matter.

He tried not to focus on what was waiting for him as he was buzzed through his own door and led by a pair of guards through various security checkpoints. Predictably the layout and fixtures of D Bloc appeared very similar to A Bloc, where he and Mick had been held 5 years ago. It was all mirrored, of course, since it was in the opposite wing of the prison, but Len could handle that. If anything D looked like it hadn’t yet received the retrofitting that had already been performed in A. Interesting.

“Open on 312!” The guard at his left elbow called. There was a grating buzz and Len was guided up two flights of stairs and down the gangway toward his cell. It was the middle of the afternoon, just a couple of hours before dinner, so most of the prisoners were lying around minding their own business. A few people called out his name, but he ignored their taunts.

He turned the corner into his cell, expecting something bad -- a skinhead, a child molester, a whistler -- but it was just a guy. Standing in front of the bunkbed, looking resigned and staring at the cinderblock wall. The picture of the dutiful prisoner.

“Who the hell’re you?” Len asked, eyes narrow.

Both guards chuckled as they set to unlocking the cuffs on Len’s wrists and around his ankles. One of them tossed a spare set of underclothes on the top bunk, and then they left. The door to the cell rolled shut behind them. 

His cell mate looked nervous now that the guards were gone, which made Len even more certain that this was some kind of newbie. Who felt better with the rent-a-cops breathing down their neck?

“Henry-- uh, Allen.”

Len smirked, “Well which one is it? Or have you not decided yet?”

The other man sighed. “Henry is my first name; Allen is my last name.”

Len hopped up onto the top bunk, both to make it clear the other man would have to fight him for it, and to put a little space between them. 

“You know that makes me mad. Here I am with a name like mine, and you get two perfectly serviceable names you could go by?”

Henry Allen shifted to put the wall to his back and crossed his arms, an unimpressed look resolving on his face. “Am I supposed to know your name?”

OK. Now they were getting somewhere.

\-------

“What d’you mean innocent?”

“I mean ‘not guilty’.” Len frowned up at Mick from where he was sketching an abstract floor plan of D Bloc in the loose silt of the yard. “I don’t think he did it.”

Mick shifted to glare at an inmate who was wandering too close to them. The inmate raised his hands in a placating gesture and turned around. “Yeah I asked around about who you got put in with and the guys in my bloc said he was either a pushover or a maniac and nobody knew which.”

“S’what I figured, too,” Len said, standing up and dusting his hands off on his pants. “But it’s been a week, and nothing about how he acts seems to match up with the story of what they pinned on him.”

They frowned contemplatively down at Len’s diagram.

“You’re right,” Mick muttered eventually. “Gonna be a pain in the ass, but D Bloc’s the easier out.”

“Which means you’re going to have to get to me,” Len said, scuffing out the markings in the dirt with his shoe. “Don’t panic.”

Mick put both hands over his face and arched back a bit like he was holding in a particularly loud curse. “I’m not panicking,” he said, words muffled.

“We’ll have a plan. It’ll work.”

“Just like always,” Mick said.

“Just like always,” Len echoed. 

\-------

“Air vents?” Mick asked, tossing the tennis ball up to where Len was sitting on the bed.

“So cliche,” Len answered, catching the ball and spinning it in the palm of his hand before tossing it back. “Why not just hide in some laundry hampers -- why, they’ll wheel us right out!”

Mick snorted, presumably at the image of the two of them curled up in one of those pushcarts. He threw the ball back. “What d’you think, Shawshank?”

Len smiled at the sound of Henry’s book snapping closed. The older brother in him couldn’t resist annoying his easily perturbed cellmate. 

“For the last time, Mick, Shawshank was the name of the prison, not the character. How are you even in our bloc right now?”

Mick shrugged. “I walked in nexta Snart and nobody stopped me. _Shawshank_.” He smirked up at Len.

“Please don’t call me that, the guards will think I’m part of--” Len leaned over the edge of the bunk in time to see Henry’s broad hand gesture-- “All of this.”

“I ain’t calling you that cause I think you got some secret escape plan,” Mick said, then added, like an afterthought, “Though if you do and you ain’t letting us in on it then I’m gonna kick your ass.” 

Henry sighed and walked over to the combo sink/toilet to splash some water on his face. “I know that. It’s because you all like to make fun of me for insisting that I didn’t kill my wife.”

There was an awkward beat of silence where Mick shot Len a confused look. He wasn’t used to hanging out with people who either couldn’t or wouldn’t take crap and dish it right back.

“Uh... Well, Len believes you,” Mick said.

Len closed his eyes and dropped his head. When he glanced up again Henry had turned back around and was openly studying him. “He does, huh?”

“Yep,” Mick answered. Len braced himself for follow-up, but Henry just shrugged.

“Well I was bound to convince someone eventually.” He grabbed his book and sat back down in his bottom bunk. 

As soon as Len knew his cellmate was no longer paying attention he whipped the ball at Mick’s head in vengeance for his loose lips.

The thudding sound it made was almost as satisfying as Mick’s squawk. 

\-------

Len spat a mouthful of blood out into the dust and brown grass at his feet. His jaw was smarting, but a quick assessment with his tongue didn’t find any missing teeth.

The skinhead cracked the knuckles of the hand he’d just used to punch him. “Whatsamatter? Can’t fight back without Rory around?”

On Len’s recommendation -- supposedly because it might curry some favor with the reform-minded warden -- Mick was at a computer class. Secretly Len had thought it would be good for his partner because Mick was the only mechanical genius Len knew who was a hunt-and-peck typer. 

Now Len was sort of regretting suggesting it.

He circled his hulking opponent, resolving that if he was gonna get sent to the SHU for this, he might as well make a Nazi squeal. It had been awhile since he’d gouged out an eye...

“HEY! What’s going on here?!” 

The loose circle of gangbangers who’d surrounded them dispersed as three guards pushed their way through. 

“Michaelsson!” One of them shouted at Len’s assailant, who had made the unwise decision of throwing a punch at the smallest guard. “You start this?!” 

Two of the officers managed to get Michaelsson’s arms behind his back and marched him toward the prison while he kicked and shouted and foamed at the mouth. Len kept his head down and turned away, hoping that with how thick the crowd had been the guards hadn’t noticed who exactly the skinheads had been targeting. 

He risked a glance up and met the gaze of Officer Ted Mbachu, who had been around since Len’s last stay at Iron Heights. In 2002 Mbachu had been green, but now he was looking at Len like he had him all figured out. Considering Len’d escaped the last time, and was currently planning his next escape, Mbachu likely did have a pretty good idea.

“Just make sure it’s one of my days off,” the officer said, then turned and walked back to the CO building. 

Len shoved his hands in his pockets and headed toward the part of the yard closest to the D Bloc entrance. His face was starting to smart. As he approached he picked out a familiar figure sitting on the bleachers reading, so he altered his course.

“Henry,” he said in greeting. “More space men from mars?”

“Hi Leonard. There are no aliens in The Time Machine. How’s your face?”

Len shifted self-consciously. The throbbing heat on the side of his face and Henry’s knowing look brought him back to a time in his life he’d rather not revisit. He sat down next to his cell mate and stretched his legs out.

“Well, I got punched,” he said lightly.

“I saw,” Henry said, dog-earing the corner of the page he was on, “I’m sorry you got hurt.” He sounded sincere.

“You send the guards?” Len asked. Henry nodded. “You understand I don’t need you to look out for me, right? You’re only a few years older than me, and I’m the one who’s actually a criminal. Maybe I deserve a punch.”

“Nobody deserves violence, Leonard,” Henry said. “Except for Michaelsson,” he amended. “That Nazi could use a punch.”

Len laughed, trying not to focus on the warmth in his chest that seemed to grow whenever his cell mate said or did something that betrayed his esteem for Len. Recently Henry’d made an offhand comment about Len being the best crossword puzzler he’d ever met, and Len had had to pretend to need a nap so that he could climb into his bunk and process the butterflies in his stomach. He felt strange and wrong-footed, but he couldn’t get enough of it. It was dangerous.

“You should go to the infirmary,” Henry said gently.

“Why do you think I came over? Somebody mentioned you used to be a doctor.”

Henry set his book down and lifted his hands toward Len’s head; Len’s instincts kicked in and he reared back.

“Sorry!” Henry looked as surprised as Len. “Sorry, I should’ve given some warning.”

“No, it’s fine,” Len was mortified. Henry wasn’t going to hurt him.

“I’m just gonna...” Henry slowly lifted his hands, and Len nodded. Henry gently cupped his face, frowning. “Relax your jaw?” Len did, and Henry slowly shifted his fingers around, pressing and feeling at the sides of his face and the soft parts around his neck. Len felt like he’d never been more aware of each place he was being touched. Ten points of contact burned; he could barely feel his bruise anymore.

“Could you just open and close your mouth a few times? Don’t clench your teeth if it hurts, just tap them together,” Henry said. Len complied and Henry hummed. “You always had this click?” He tapped two fingers on the right hinge of Len’s jaw.

“Yeah, ever since-- yeah. Since I was a kid,” Len said.

“Right,” Henry’s hands slid off. Len was definitely imagining a reluctance to the other man’s motions.

What he was not imagining was the look that many a doctor had directed at him in his life. Friendly. Understanding. Sympathetic.

“Don’t,” He said warningly.

Henry took the hint and let it drop. He picked his book back up.

“I think you’d like this,” Henry said. “Wells had some interesting things to say about good men getting on bad paths.”

“Time travel?” Len snorted, “Yeah, no thanks.”

\-------

A week later Len was lying in bed staring at the cracks in the ceiling. He’d been back in Iron Heights for a month-and-a-half, and he was nowhere near where he needed to be with his escape plan. 

“Noticed Mick didn’t come by after dinner,” Henry said. His quiet murmur just barely carried to Len. 

Henry was leaning against the wall, looking out into the dark cell bloc. He did that some nights after lights out. Len swung his legs over the side of the bed and hopped down. He rested his shoulder on the bunk and observed Henry. His profile. His mindful calm in the face of his completely unfair existence. 

Eventually Len turned away to sit on the edge of the bottom bunk.

“Mick’s pissed at me,” Len said.

“Any particular reason, or would explaining make me an accomplice?” Henry teased.

Len considered coming out and telling Henry that he was, in fact, the subject of their fight. Len didn’t want his and Mick’s escape to implicate Henry, and that meant their cell couldn’t be the point of egress. It meant he and Mick were back to square 1.

“Mick and I both have strong personalities. There’re bound to be blow-ups.” 

“Well... you don’t have to spend all your free time with Mick.” Henry looked nervous. Shy? 

“Oh yeah?” He leaned back and blinked slowly up at Henry. “Who else is going to keep me entertained?”

“I know some jokes,” Henry grinned. “Stories. Or...well...”

“Well?” Len prompted.

“You could tell me stories. About you. Uh, and Mick. Or just you.”

Len frowned and sat up. “Are you coming on to me?”

Henry smiled and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Not very well, if you have to ask.”

“You were married. You’re a _family man_ ,” Leonard said it with a sneer, hoping that the sudden pounding of his heart in his chest didn’t register to his cell mate. He gripped the sheets on either side of the mattress (Henry’s bed) where he was sitting.

“I loved my wife more than I had ever thought it was possible to love another person, and even with her gone I’m constantly finding new dimensions to that love. Partially because of how much our son reminds me of her.”

He got the far-away look he usually did whenever the tyke came up, and Leonard wondered not for the first time if his father ever missed him and Lisa when he or they were locked up. It was a stupid thought to have, and pathetic. Still. 

“So, this is how you honor her? A little rough trade?” Len drawled.

It was 50/50 whether the other man would coo and reassure him or call him out on his bullshit. After a beat Henry rolled his eyes -- _'Thank god,’_ Len thought -- and sat next to him on the lower bunk. Not too close. Not close enough.

“My point is: I’m never going to stop loving my wife. But Nora’s been gone for six years, and she’s not coming back. It’s--” He swallowed, anxiety showing briefly on his face -- “It’s not likely I’ll ever get out of here, or get a chance to have a life with anyone else. So I’m trying not to let myself feel too bad about admitting when I’m attracted to someone. I think if things had gone the other way, and she was here, she’d do the same.”

Leonard drew his right hand, the one that was between them, back into his lap so that he could fiddle with the pinky knuckle where his ring usually sat.

“If things had gone the other way she would be in the women’s prison,” Leonard mumbled.

Henry chuckled. “Good point. I’m sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable Leonard,” he said, shifting his weight like he was about to stand up, “I’ll stop trying to flirt before I embarrass both of us to death.”

Leonard shot his hand out to wrap around Henry’s wrist, trying not to think too hard about what he was doing. “You could call me Len,” he said, tentatively making eye contact. It was 2007, Len was thirty-two, and the idea of the first man he was ever going to kiss calling him Leonard made him want to die.

“Len,” Henry smiled, slowly leaning forward. Len swallowed and met him in the middle, lips too tense for a good kiss, while he thought about kids on the schoolyard calling him a fag, his well-meaning grandpa explaining that as long as he also liked girls then everything else was ‘just thoughts’, his father calling him a fag.

He pulled back from the kiss. “That was terrible.”

Henry barked a laugh, then slapped a hand over his mouth. Across the bloc some asshole mimicked the sound, and distantly a guard called for quiet. Len was glad the darkness in the cell would obscure the color in his cheeks.

“No--” he hissed-- “Not you, me. _I_ was terrible. Here, let me just--” He leaned back into Henry’s space, this time bringing his left hand up to splay over the other man’s collarbone and grip slightly at his shoulder. In his head he was clinging, and his dad was still calling him a fag, but it mattered less as Henry’s hand came up to trace over his wrist and envelop Len’s hand where it rested.

Len looked up, surprised, into eyes crinkled with mirth. “You wanna try this again?” Henry asked. 

\-------

“So you’re sleepin’ with the doctor?” Mick asked.

Len spun around, gripped Mick by the collar, and shoved him back against the book shelf they were supposed to be filling with books. “You shut your mouth!” he growled.

“Calm down, Snart. I ain’t mad that you’re gay.”

“I am not gay!” Len hissed, hyper-aware of their surroundings, of the people who could be listening in.

Mick pushed his hand off of him. “Fine, whatever. I don’t care who you sleep with -- I care about getting out of here.”

Len turned away to pick up several more books from the cart and compose himself.

“Come on, Len. We had a plan. Now suddenly that plan’s scrapped? Fine, but look me in the eyes and tell me you’re working on another way out.”

Len smacked a Grisham novel against Mick’s chest and met his eyes. “I’m working on another way out.”

“Good,” Mick grunted, taking the book.

They worked quietly for a few minutes as the anxiety in Len’s chest grew tighter and tighter.

“Do you really not care?” He mumbled.

“Nah, brother. It’s the 21st century.”

“Right,” Len said. He shelved the books in his arms. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” 

\-------

“Hey Henry?” Len asked quietly.

“Yeah, Len?” Henry answered, squeezing him a bit tighter with his left arm, which was wrapped around Len and holding him snug against his side. (His other arm, which Len occasionally batted at in annoyance, was resolutely holding onto his book.) 

“Come with us,” Len murmured, turning his face into Henry’s chest. He could almost imagine that he could hear the man’s heartbeat.

“Len...” Henry trailed off, and there was a soft _whumpf_ as his other arm (thumb between the pages of his book to keep his place) fell to the bed by his side. Len lifted his head up.

“Not so we can be together,” Len said, rolling his eyes slightly. “This is nice, but I don’t think either of us are operating under the impression it would ever have happened if we’d met under different circumstances.”

“Probably fair,” Henry answered. Len liked how straightforward the other man was. He also liked how Henry lifted his head to press a kiss to Len’s forehead as a kind of apology. It was unnecessary, but nice. 

“I’m not trying to get you to run away with me, but you shouldn’t be here. You didn’t kill your wife. I actually did the crimes they booked me for, and in a month I’ll be gone.”

Henry chuckled. “Is your sense of fairness chafing?” 

Len rolled over so he could lie on Henry’s chest, and prop his chin on his arms. “What about the tyke?”

“Believe it or not, he’s why I have to stay.”

“Bull,” Len said.

“He was there that night, and he knows I didn’t do it. Says he’s going to prove it so that they’ll have to release me.”

“You think it’s possible?”

“Nope,” Henry smiled. “But if I ran it would validate all of his worst fears, and alienate him further from all the people who have told him he’s wrong to defend me.”

“So? Fuck ‘em. You’ll be out, you can take him and run. Have you ever been to Thailand?” Len asked. 

“He needs them. They’re his family now.”

“Family ain’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Len said.

“They weren’t there that night, and what Barry and I saw...” Henry had tried to explain it to Len, and even he had to admit that it sounded insane. The amount of science fiction the man read made sense. “I can’t blame them for not believing,” Henry finished. 

“‘M starting to think you might be a saint,” Len said. He let his head fall back down to Henry’s chest. Henry ran his hands up and down Len’s arms.

“Sometimes I get so mad, so hopeless, that I imagine escaping. Taking him with me, like you said. That’s not the kind of life he deserves.”

“This isn’t the kind of life you deserve,” Len whispered.

“No. But it’s the only one I’ve got.”

\-------

Two weeks later, Len was staring up at the ceiling from his bunk while Henry stood and looked out into the dark bloc. In one swift, quiet motion, Len rolled off the bed and stalked forward, snaking his arms around Henry’s chest and using his hands to hold the man’s mouth and nose shut. Henry jerked, instinctively trying to escape, but after a brief struggle he passed out and went limp in Len’s arms. 

Len let him slump to the ground, grabbed the letter he’d been working on from under his pillow and stuck it between two pages in Henry’s book. He gave one last look at the other man, then tossed the novel back on the bed. 

\-------

2017

Barry had cleaned out the bulk of his Dad’s stuff from the cabin months ago -- right after he’d undone the Flashpoint timeline. Most of the furnishings he’d kept, figuring he might rent the cabin out, but if he was being honest it had probably been because he’d suspected he would want to use it the way he was using it now: as a hideout.

Well. Hideout was a strong word, but it was nice to have a place where he could come and just be slow. And quiet. A place to think about his Dad, and remember without feeling guilty. Flashpoint was the most selfish thing he’d ever done.

He still didn’t fully regret it the way he should. 

Rain was pattering on the roof and running in rivulets down the windows, and there was no cable and barely any cell service up here, so Barry started looking around for something to read. The shelf by the single armchair mostly had old issues of Time and National Geographic. He thought he’d seen...

Oh, right. It was in the nightstand.

The nightstand was one of the things Barry hadn’t quite been able to bring himself to empty out. When he pulled open the drawer it revealed the same items it had held the first time Barry had visited his Dad at the cabin -- a pen clipped onto a small book of crossword puzzles, a pair of reading glasses, an eyeglass repair kit, a tube of Chapstick, a package of mint gum, the pocket bible his parents had used at their wedding and a library-bound copy of The Time Machine. 

Barry smiled as he lifted the book -- it had been one of their “Prison Book Club” books. They’d read it together while he’d been in high school. He carried it over to the armchair and resolved to read it at regular speed.

A couple hours later, eyes bleary, he stood up to turn on the floor lamp, setting down the book on the coffee table as he did so. The book’s covers were heavy enough that it didn’t flip closed, but Barry’s place was lost as the pages flopped over to a creased section. 

Except... Barry frowned. The binding wasn’t creased; there was a piece of paper stuck between the pages. Its edges were yellowed, and it was slightly bent on top, as though his Dad had been using it as a bookmark. There were crinkles and smudges and parts of the grain felt smoother (probably due to frequent handling). He pulled it out and flipped it over, revealing now-faint words that looked like they’d been written in pencil.

_I care about you more than I let on. Pretty sure you know that. I hope someday you get out of here the way you want to -- the right way. I think I might always wonder what could’ve happened if we’d met when we were younger._

_Stay safe._

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought!


End file.
